chasing pigeons - a poetry collection

london train station: people watching

I call myself a people watcher.
But mostly because of paranoia.

There's a strange art in observing others,
Like how a kid will watch ants on a playground.
Out of morbid curiosity.
And a little bit of fascination.

I love seeing the bigger picture;
But life isn't black and white.
Zooming in, and seeing the ugly,
Sometimes feels so right.

Sometimes.
I don't always like seeing the ugly.
But it's part of how we are.
Who we are.
We are ugly.
We start wars, we kill for no reason.
And unfortunately, "ugly"
Is just a synonym for "human".

So I people watch.
Because of paranoia.

In a London train station,
At eleven pm,
A woman─looks young─plays the violin.
Looks tired.

I don't know why she's out so late.
She plays a lovely song,
But the world is a scary place,
It's twisted and it's dark.

I have paranoia for her.
I hope she gets home safe.
I hope everyone on their route home
Makes it through the door, unharmed...

A kid in a balaclava,
No older than me,
Sets off alarm bells in my head.
But he's probably doing nothing.
It's just a fashion sense.
Not an outfit for a stabbing.

I tell myself:

I need to stop over thinking.
It's an unhealthy habit.
But, one day, that gut intuition
Could save my life;
Could save another's.

So I people watch.
Like how a kid watches ants on a playground.

He doesn't squash the ants, though.
Or critisice them for being freaky insects.
No.

Instead, he just hopes that they won't bite him,
And he moves on with his day.

(written on a train, at 10:55pm, on Tuesday the 22nd of August, 2023, when on my way back from seeing a play with my mother).